


One's Vice, Another's Virtue

by Moransroar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Professor Moriarty - Freeform, age difference is about seven years, poetry student!Seb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What is forbidden is often what one craves<br/>It's the danger, the risk<br/>The thrill of the chase<br/>We are willing to take<br/>What is not rightfully ours<br/>And still claim it as our own</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Would you?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One's Vice, Another's Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If we were to linger in these_   
>  _Terribly mundane ways of_   
>  _Making conversation_   
>  _When will you ever see_   
>  _That all I try_   
>  _Is luring you in_

****

“I have written a new piece, Sir.”

The whole class had gone, leaving Sebastian Moran alone with his professor in the lecture hall. The blond teen was holding a piece of paper on which he had written the poem, not yet a masterpiece, but definitely something he was proud of. He stood near the desk behind which professor Moriarty was gathering his belongings and storing them in his satchel, ready to go home after a long day of work. It was the end of the day, the literal end, and Sebastian was sure the man was rather eager to get home and relax. Still, he wanted him to even so much as skim through his most recent work. A work in progress still, but then all poetry always remained just that, even after publishing. All works ever remain that, from famous works of Shakespeare to those of Oscar Wilde.

“Care to share?” The raven-haired professor asked Sebastian, who nodded and stepped forward to hand Moriarty his work. The former turned, reaching out to take it from him.

“I hope it’s nothing too bad,” Sebastian remarked a little sheepishly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other almost invisibly. He would never admit that he was quite nervous at that moment, because having Moriarty read it could result in all sorts of things, all of which scenarios Sebastian predicted wouldn’t end well.

“Nonsense,” Sebastian heard the other man say, and that eased his nerves a bit. At least his professor had absolute faith in him.

Sebastian watched how Moriarty read through it all, and not just skimming, proper reading, analysing as he seemed to have a habit of doing. The man rounded the desk to sit on the edge at the front, facing Sebastian as he read. The classroom was dead silent, and for all the student knew, the whole earth was silent at that moment, holding her breath. Perhaps it extended beyond the confines of the classroom, Sebastian figured everyone who doesn’t have an obligation to stay there must have left already, going home to dinner and the warm comforts of a bed.

Outside, it had probably already gone dark, but inside the lecture hall it seemed like noon due to the lack of windows and multitude of artificial light.

And Sebastian was wide awake.

“Is it about someone I know?” The professor’s voice tore through the silence, pulling the younger man from his thoughts. He looked up to meet a pair of curious, chocolate eyes. “It feels really personal.”

Sebastian considered his chances, and then nodded marginally, thinking if he were to be put to shame he might as well go down with the last glimpse of his sense of pride. His very last dignity. “Yeah. Both, really,” he explained, “It’s rather personal. Very personal.”

Moriarty’s eyes finally cast downwards to read the words on the paper again, and the other male felt like he could breathe once again.

“Then it’s still not personal enough, Sebastian,” The man informed him, squinting at Sebastian’s work again, “If you want to approach this, do it properly. A hundred percent, not eighty-five and a little bit. Making the reader uncomfortable is justified it it’s a good, genuine uncomfortable feeling.”

Tips like these were rare for the students. Actual, personal tips on a work that was – to Sebastian – almost too personal to even want to elaborate on, but he soaked up as much information as he could, and as Moriarty would bestow upon him.

“Thank you, sir,” Sebastian gave a small nod, “How do you suggest I make it more personal than this while still concealing who or what it is about?” Because that had been his only force in the story; keep his muse from public eye and avoid being frowned upon or even suspended.

“You’re vague and it seems forced,” The professor mused. “Like you know what you wanted to say originally, but you censored yourself. Don’t do that.” And index finger was briefly pointed at the student, who knew perfectly well what his professor was talking about, and nodded guiltily. Hell, what frightened him most was the possibility of Moriarty figuring out what exactly he censored, but desperate times ask for desperate measures. Sebastian had to begin on his thesis for his final exam, and professor Moriarty was not only his teacher, but also the only professor he trusted with his work, and whom he was sure of would give him advise he could use.

“Either way,” Moriarty continued as he shifted a little on the desk, readjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose, “Write it down or don’t even hint at it.”

Sebastian nodded to that, “Alright, yeah. I can do that. Should I add an extra element of tension instead, perhaps?”

Moriarty slipped off the desk and folded the paper again, going back around the desk to continue figuring out which of the items on the surface were worth bringing home with a thoughtful expression.

“Tension is fine, but don’t treat your poems like a movie trailer. They’re not supposed to be easy unless you want them to be.” The man held up the paper, looking over at Sebastian, “May I hold onto this?”

Sebastian was a little unsure about that, but then he doubted that the man would spend evenings on end reading it over and over, analysing every single word, so if it was already vague, Sebastian would be safe.

“Of course, have it,” Sebastian eventually agrees, “Do you think I should make it _more_ vague than it already is? To genuinely confuse the reader?”

“You really don’t want anyone to know who it is about, do you?” Moriarty cocked his head, closing his leather satchel. Sebastian nodded. “Shame can be a good motivator, even though it’s a fairly unhealthy one.” He stopped in his movements to glance up briefly, “I assume it’s shame.”

The man’s assumption was, of course, spot on. “Good assumption. It feels unhealthy.”

“Who is it?”

Sebastian was briefly caught off guard by the question, because now it was obvious that Moriarty knew it was a person whom it was about. But he couldn’t simply ask the draft back, especially now the man had hidden it between his books in the leather satchel he was holding. That would be rude, if not suspicious. It was halfway through Sebastian’s third year, and he couldn’t be thrown out now. He needed to finish this first, and he had already come this far.

“I shouldn’t tell, sir.”

Moriarty was relentless, eyes fixed on his student without wavering, “Why not?”

Sebastian swallows under the professor’s scrutiny, finding himself lightly fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, reluctant to say the least. If he was a quick one to blush, his cheeks would have seen an angry red by then.

“Like you assumed, it’s unhealthy. Inappropriate, even.” Sebastian looked up to meet the other’s gaze, taking a shallow breath under the almost intense stare. He wondered what Moriarty saw, if he saw the same with Sebastian as he saw with the older man. Probably not. Hell, he was a hundred percent sure. “So – yeah, I shouldn’t.”

“Inappropriate in which context?”

It felt like being interrogated, locked away in a lecture hall that seemed to shrink until the walls were so close around them that it felt like he couldn’t breathe normally anymore. Suffocating. Sebastian shuddered.

Moriarty noticed the uncomfortable feeling that seemed to radiate from the teen, so he resumed his mini lecture to take Sebastian’s mind off of his questions. For now.

“As a writer, you need to critically look at the social conventions around, examine stigmata to develop your own perspective. Maybe this is something that will help you in the long run.”

“So perhaps inappropriate is appropriate as long as I hold onto my own perspective, get my own opinion and reasoning for certain things?” As soon as the words left his lips, Sebastian frowned. That wasn’t exactly what he meant to say.

“Sebastian, if you ask me: You should have morals and strong ethics. Something sharp and useful. I don’t think everything is okay.”

Sebastian went to protest, explain that he didn’t mean to put it like that, but he was cut off as the professor continued. “But judging from your poem, you’re just feeling a lot.”

That was a bit of a consolation. It meant that Moriarty wasn’t judging him for what he had said. He didn't think inappropriate would be appropriate as long as he thought it would be. There were things called boundaries and limits. To everything.

“Yes, yes of course. Apologies. I didn’t.. mean that, really I didn’t.”

Moriarty gave a small smile, taking his coat from the chair and slipping his arms into the sleeves, shrugging it on, “Nothing I’d classify as dangerous,” he took his satchel in hand, went around the desk, and reached out to give Sebastian’s bicep a light, quick squeeze. Sebastian felt a light shiver run down his spine, and he wished that the floor would swallow him up right there and then, now very much certain that the blood in his cheeks had grown thus hot that it shone through his skin.

“Okay, as long as the story behind it isn’t too apparent. But seeming as it isn’t obvious from the piece,” Sebastian shrugged, walking back to his table to pick up his own bag and jacket, feeling a little more at ease when he wasn’t in such close proximity to his teacher, “That’s good. I’ll work on my technique and morals, sir.”

“Are you dangerous?” Came the sudden question, and Sebastian turned where he stood to find Moriarty nonchalantly leaned against the front of his desk, head tilted at the student and eyes slightly lidded as if he was squinting.

Sebastian swallowed. “Wha-“

“Ask yourself that question.”

“Oh,” Sebastian felt like he was being mocked, or Moriarty would just be a really good therapist of sorts, and knew how to baffle people, shut them up. It sure as hell was working with Sebastian, whose jaws felt locked together as he thought under the intense gaze of his professor. “I think I could be, if I would have to. But it all depends on your definition of ‘dangerous’, and in what context you’re thinking of it.”

Moriarty shook his head, “In general,” he held a hand up, “No need to discuss this with me. This is your decision to make.”

With that, he took up his belongings again and walked towards the door, signalling the end of their conversation, “I’m looking forward to reading another version.”

“Mm, I think I have a few ideas. I could write a few drafts as soon as I’m home.”

Together, they exited the lecture hall and made for the entrance of the building, side by side as they talked.

“Email me the drafts when you’re ready,” Moriarty advised him with a small smile, curious what the teen would come up with next, “You have my number, not?”

Sebastian nodded, mimicking the smile, liking the way it seemed to light up Moriarty’s features. He seemed a lot less stern like that, and as the man took off his glasses to put them in the pocket on the inside of his jacket, Sebastian swallowed shortly. The twenty-six-year-old professor looked far younger than he was like that, and yet…

“Yes, I do. I’ll send them to you whenever I’ve finished. Although the first ones might still be censored. I’ve got to get through the rubbish first,” he sighed quietly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he averted his gaze, watching his feet rather than the man next to him. Which did miracles for his concentration, apparently. “It’s.. blocking me. Something is. It’s shame maybe, like you said.”

“Everyone I know, whose work I value, has one or more pieces that follow them around for life, Sebastian. Something that you keep working on. If it takes five-hundred censored ones to create one that isn’t, that’s fine. You just have to endure the process.”

It was a certain form of consolation, to know that not only an amateur poet like Sebastian himself struggled with these kinds of things, and maybe that was all that he needed to gather the courage to write this piece again. Throw it in the bin and start over, but keep the message of the first draft in mind. It should work. But then again, the student didn’t feel like he would ever really finish this, so he voiced his inner thoughts in the hopes to get some more advice on that.

“I don’t think I will ever finish it, really. Eventually, my inspiration, this.. person,” he took a deep breath as he seemed to struggle with finding words, which was extraordinary for such a good speaker and writer, and tried again, “People come and go as they always do, that’s natural. And I think I’ll lose them too soon. I’ll try working on it for as long as possible, of course, but some day it will end.”

Moriarty pursed his lips, but shook his head, “You don’t lose people, Sebastian. Sometimes you have to move on your own to survive.”

“It already feels like losing somehow,” Sebastian commented gravely, frowning slightly, “Even though I’ve never _had_ them to begin with. And I know I never will, don’t get me wrong, I’ve never even _dared_ hoping.”

Sebastian tried to laugh it off with an airy chuckle, but as he glanced up to meet Moriarty’s eye he saw that it wasn’t working. The man knew so much about his moods, apparently. Heck, this man knew more about him than he knew about himself at times. An admirable man he was, Jim Moriarty.

“And I’m moving on my own,” Sebastian added, “Just agonizingly slowly.”

They stopped just outside the building, and Sebastian noticed how it –indeed- had already gone dark, and turning to each other. Moriarty pulled a produced a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Sebastian, who took it with a grateful smile.

Sebastian took out his lighter as he saw the other man trying to find it, and failing, the cigarette dangling delicately from his lips. He reached out to flick the lighter in front of Moriarty, cupping his hand around the fragile flame to shield it from the slight breeze and give his professor the chance to light his fag, before he lit his own.

The latter took a deep drag before pinching the cigarette between the index and middle finger of his left hand, contemplating the student’s statement.

“You want to talk about it, yet you don’t want to talk about it,” he offered thoughtfully before letting go of the smoke in his lungs. He scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes.

Sebastian chewed on his lower lip as he watched the other man, his own lit cigarette held low by his thigh, out of the direct wind. “I just don’t think I can bear it to specifically talk about it. To give this-“ he made a vague gesture with his hand for emphasis, “This _ghost_ a name. Don’t you think it should stay just that; a ghost?”

Moriarty briefly brushed the back of his index finger across his slightly parted lips as he thought, which dragged Sebastian’s attention to the plush expanse of rose skin.

“That all depends on you, really. If you feel it would mess with your psyche, don’t.”

Sebastian gave a short, sheepish chuckle at that, making Moriarty raise one impeccable eyebrow.

“It’s not necessarily that, Sir. It would most certainly mess with whatever reputation I have managed to maintain at school and with you.”

Moriarty turned to Sebastian, facing him with a sincere and almost reverent expression as he looked him straight in the eye without so much as a fraction of shame. Sebastian, of course, found it hard to meet his eye and keep his gaze there, never having been too keen on longer periods of eye contact. Plus this was Moriarty, not just any other bird from school he was trying to flirt with. Not that he had ever attempted to flirt with his professor, mainly because he knew it would be futile and lead to nothing other than scolding.

The professor said, “Do you want me to speculate about your ghost? Honest question.”

“I want people who don’t know them to speculate about them. Want them to wonder, to.. to feel what I do, if that makes sense.”

“Makes perfect sense to me. But if you want that, then you will have to turn up the volume, Sebastian. Show it.”

“And filter who I let it read, then?” Sebastian took another drag, watching the smoke evaporate in the space between him and the professor.

“People are oblivious to most things. Unless you include a very detailed description or a name, they won’t know.”

Despite it coming as a relief to Sebastian, he reckoned that he should have known that. How many times had he himself not been oblivious to a thousand things, important or not. Even some things that were right in front of him, clear as day. People really could be ignorant if it suited them best.

“They will relate to your, let’s call it by its name – desperation – and look at themselves in return.”

“Reflect upon themselves,” Sebastian mused in turn, nodding as he agreed with his professor, “I won’t include specific details or a name, that’s for sure. Maybe in a later stage, long after people have forgotten about me.” He smirked, and Moriarty offered him a pat on the shoulder.

“Sebastian, I need to get home. It’ll rain soon, you should too. Just send me the bits, yeah?  Continue working, I want to see your progress.”

Sebastian nodded quickly, noticing how much of Moriarty’s time their conversation had taken. Time which he had probably been able to spend on something far more important than Sebastian’s ramblings, yet still he told the student that he wanted him to keep the older man updated. Sebastian would do so, gladly.

“Yessir. Have a good night Sir.”

Moriarty smiled at Sebastian, a dazzling, warm smile that had Sebastian averting his gaze to stare at his half gone cigarette instead. The man dropped his fag and crushed it with the toe of his shoe before walking down the concrete steps down to the parking lot.

“Good night to you too, Sebastian.”

The raven-haired man disappeared out of sight, and Sebastian took a last long drag of his cigarette, holding in the burning smoke as long as he could before needing to breathe.  
  


Moriarty still had his poem.  
  


Sebastian couldn’t begin to imagine in how much trouble he was.


End file.
